


Borrowed Time

by thaumatomane (choosedailymail)



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: M/M, Waterloo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choosedailymail/pseuds/thaumatomane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Battle of Waterloo, Strange performs some old-fashioned magic to allow Major Grant to say his goodbyes to Colonel De Lancey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borrowed Time

A cannonball floated weightlessly before the muzzle of its bore. In the air, beads of rain hung like shimmering diamonds suspended from threads. Muskets became frozen branches growing from the arms of the men holding them, their boots rooted in the muddy grass. Beside them, the smoking charges of their weapons hovered like static clouds of fog. Rearing stallions balanced on thin legs, the dirty tendrils of their manes stiffened above the terrified whites of their eyes. This tableaux of war stood beneath an eerie light, entombed in silence. This was Waterloo, and this was Aureate magic.

Strange could hear nothing but his own rough, sharp breaths, the sudden quiet causing his ears to ring as though he had been dragged underwater, or buried deep into snow. His hands were trembling. Not from fear, nor from guilt, but from the sheer strength this spell required of him. Seeing De Lancey slashed open like he were made of mere cloth and cotton stuffing, had driven him to this.

Laying back against the startlingly cold ground, Strange curled his fingers into his fists and pushed them hard into his palms until his nails threatened to split the skin. He whispered under his breath. Just a few seconds, that’s all he needed. Knuckles taut and white against the bone, his hands shaking from their efforts, slowly, so very slowly, the rest of the magic began to take effect.  

The raindrops started to reverse, the effect of it quite bizarre to behold, and the clouds above the battlefield began to refill. The cannonball slid back into the cannon, gunpowder slowly creeping with it inside the hollow. Strange turned his head to watch as De Lancey was raised back to his feet, the French soldier and the axe he wielded slicing back through him, but closing the wound in its wake. Charging feet stepped backwards. Splinters of wood flew back into place within the gate. Flags flapped against the wind. Bubbles of froth withdrew into the mouths of the horses. So much happened in so little time.

By now Strange was panting wildly, his energy reserves fast depleting. Soon he would be left running on adrenaline alone. He was certain he would be no good to anyone once the spell and the reason for it was completed, but he would rather steal himself away when time restarted than ever look Major Grant in the eye again knowing he could have given him this.

With those few seconds turned back and halted, it was Grant whom Strange required now. He was somewhere out there, beyond the farmhouse’s fractured doors and the wall of men crossing her threshold. It would take far too long to find him without the use of magic, if indeed he were still breathing, so Strange would try his best. Sinking a hand into the loose mud, he anchored himself to the land and held it firm, along with its enchantment. With his other he reached out, fingers outspread. He asked the magic to search for the Major, to wrap its long fingers around his chest and to pluck him from where he stood. Strange sensed when he had been located, and bade the hand to deliver the Major to him. Suddenly Grant was there, suspended just above the ground, a few feet from him. His pose was fixed as though he had been defending himself with his bare hands, or climbing a particularly steep incline. Strange lowered his arm and the spell was broken. The hand dropped Grant and he fell the few inches to the ground, conscious.

The sound that broke from the Major’s throat reminded Strange of that which the Neapolitans had made as they first drew breath that went against all probability. He looked as terrified as they had too, as he found himself instantly displaced, the soldier he had been fighting disappearing and the scene around him transformed in the blink of an eye. He peered around with frightened, eyes wide with disbelief at what eerie sight met his gaze: life at a standstill.

“Am I dead?” he asked into the air, spreading both his arms out as if to balance himself. As he did, his hands knocked against the raindrops, sending them spiralling away from him and leaving thin empty channels in their wake.

“No,” Strange answered, “merely on borrowed time.”

“Merlin,” Grant turned sharply and looked at him, but quickly turned away again, transfixed by the motionless world, “what _is_ this?”

“I don’t have long to explain,” he said, pushing his hand deeper into the watery mud. When he looked to De Lancey there was such a raw heaviness in his gaze that Grant felt compelled to follow it. They took in the scene together: the gleaming axe inches from the Colonel’s frame, the enemy soldier clasping it in both hands, his jaw stopped mid scream, and hordes of men at his back, breaking through the gates.

Grant’s immediate response, though he did not act upon it, was to charge at the monster and tug the weapon from his hand. Perhaps he might slice off his head with it for good measure and break the shaft of the handle across his thigh.

“I’m afraid his fate cannot be changed Grant. He will die.” Strange looked loathe to say it, for he knew what Grant’s reaction would be. It would be the same as those of the Aureate magicians who had discovered this magic many centuries ago. Surely, Grant would beg, if time could be reversed then could it not be altered too? Oh but it _could_ , and that was what was so maddeningly cruel about this magic. Events could be changed if there was no consequence. If a magician spilled his supper down his front he could go back to change it, avoid the embarrassment or the trouble for the housemaids. But if he were to see a child fall beneath the wheels of a carriage, or his wife succumb to the perils of childbirth, he could not help them. In this, magic and fate became unlikely enemies who enjoyed turning their backs on each other. At this very moment however, this magic was all they had. “I cannot keep this up for long.”

Grant went to protest, to plead and reason with Strange, for there had to be _something_. Strange spoke over him. “I promise you Grant, there is _nothing_ I can do,” his chest trembled with the effort speaking required while holding the Earth from turning beneath his hand. Grant’s face dropped as he came to understand what this was, what bitter gift Strange was granting him, “you must say your goodbyes quickly, but do not tell him, I don’t want him afraid.”

In the silence of the spellbound scene, quite dull around the edges, Strange’s voice carried easily. When Grant was beside De Lancey, Strange managed to tell him to touch the Colonel’s shoulder to wake him.

“Won’t he remember the--” Grant asked, his voice trailing off as he turned to look at the stationary figure of the man who was soon to rob De Lancey of _everything._ Strange shook his head in jerking movements, his hair trembling about his face.

“His focus will be you alone,” Strange’s arm convulsed in the mud and he screwed his eyes closed, hardly able to go on speaking, “touch – his shoulder.”

Grant swallowed dryly. He could clearly see how draining this was for Merlin, to keep such powerful magic under control. He wished he could have some time to think of what he might say to De Lancey, if this was to be the last time he would ever speak to him. He wished for many things.

“How long?”

“A minute,” Strange stuttered, “ma-maybe less.”

“And he will not know?” Strange gave another small headshake.

When Grant touched De Lancey’s shoulder he watched his muscles slowly slacken like a thawing plant, until he was fully awake and looking oddly calm. Blinking a few times he turned to face the Major, apparently unaware of the blade, and the battle, or of any concerns at all. He did not seem to notice the dots of water suspended all around them, or the man that stood beside him, waiting to strike. All he saw, was Grant.

De Lancey was enchanted by another ghostly hand of Strange’s magic, one that slowly wrapped itself around his mind and cradled it into contentment. It reached into his thoughts, stripping them of fear and leaving him unaware of where he was, but having no particular desire to find out. He looked as he did when he woke from a good night’s sleep in a warm, comfortable bed, the dawn slowly filtering through curtains to wake him – one foot inside a dream, the other aware he was safe.

“Grant,” he said, with a happiness that had the Major’s chest tight. A smile pulled at his lips. “Oh,” the smile faded as De Lancey’s gaze lowered to the Grant’s uniform as though it were the only thing he could see that mattered, “you’re so dirty!” It was true. Grant’s red coat was caked in mud, his hair wet with sweat and rain, and his cheeks peppered with gunpowder.

De Lancey licked the pad of his thumb and brought it up to the Major’s face to gently wipe the grey false-freckles from his cheek. Grant felt his eyes brimming with unshed tears, aware he had to keep them in to avoid scaring De Lancey. He swallowed down the lump in his throat but could not keep his bottom lip from trembling. He bit it softly to conceal the tremor and set his jaw.

“Is everything all right?” De Lancey asked, running concerned eyes over Grant’s mouth and hoping he was not sad for any reason. For there was no reason to be sad he thought, none at all. Grant reached out both of his hands and took De Lancey’s face into them.

“Everything is absolutely fine.”

The Colonel lifted a hand to lightly touch one of those against his cheek. Grant often held him like this just before he kissed him, but he did not have that look about him now. Grant’s fingertips softly pressed into the hair of his temple, and at the warm hinges of his jaw, their eyes on each other. It seemed the Major was content just to look at him, and have him look back.

Behind him, Grant heard Strange let out a gasping, guttural noise, like he was quickly being swallowed into quicksand, or thrown into an ice bath. De Lancey did not seem to notice it. There wasn’t enough time, Grant thought. There just wasn’t enough time.

“You’re an extraordinary man De Lancey,” Grant said quietly, having trouble finding the strength to speak. He leant forward and kissed the Colonel’s forehead with a tenderness he wasn’t sure he had ever shown him before. Moving his mouth to De Lancey’s ear he spoke into it, as strong and as clear as he could muster, “and, I love you.” These were three words he’d never said before, not to anyone, not with the same weight and significance as they had now. Before now, he’d been afraid to speak his feelings aloud, for once he said them then it was real and inescapable. Love was one weakness a soldier could not have. But what did it matter now? What did he have to lose besides De Lancey?

“Grant,” the Colonel chirped, gripping with the lightest touch at Grant’s hand as he leant back to look at him again, “stop, you’ll have me blushing!” His smile at the other man’s confession was worth a thousand words. He didn’t need to say it back, for they both understood, had known each other far too long not to.

“I mean it,” Grant said, smoothing his thumb over De Lancey’s cheek “you’re a good man, and a good soldier, and I do love you. I want you to know that.”

Strange let out a heaving cough as though he were about to spit out his windpipe. Grant’s lip trembled hopelessly. He could hear Merlin crawling through the mud toward them and noticed in the edges of his vision (for he could not bear to look away from De Lancey for one moment), that the rain was beginning to move minutely toward the ground again.

“You sap,” De Lancey said, chuckling. "Of course I know it."

Grant felt Strange clutch at his shin and cried out, “no, Merlin, _please_.” De Lancey looked confused as Grant grabbed with desperation at his hand, lacing their fingers together tightly as his tears began to fall freely, “let me go with him--”

There was an almighty boom of noise and a brilliant white flash of light. For a moment, Grant thought the ground was opening up beneath him, for it shook and shivered like an earthquake set on tearing the land asunder. All he could feel was Strange’s hand around at his ankle, gripping fiercely, and all he could hear were the sounds and speed of war resuming in an instant. The cannonball was forced back out to carve its passage. The muskets in the soldier’s hands were free to fire and sound. Horses kicked and bucked and screamed. The axe sliced through De Lancey for a second time.

The Major was aware that he was face down, winded, the rain now torturously beating at his back as though the elements were vengeful at having to follow the commands of just one, puny magician. When he lifted his head he found that he and Merlin were safely confined within a small circle of bushes, fifty or so yards from the edge of a battle that showed no signs of ending soon. He realised too that De Lancey had not come with them, and all too quickly it dawned on him that now, as Strange had told him, he would be dead.

Grant was struck with a sudden fit of rage. Scrambling across the ground he grabbed Merlin by the shoulders and shook him savagely.

“Why did you not leave me with him!” he bellowed until he was hoarse, “why did you—” his head slumped forward onto Strange’s chest and a single, broken sob was lost into the magician’s coat. The strong grip of Grant’s fingers fell away as he drew in a ragged breath. When he released it again, it took the form of one long, hopeless wail. “It’s not fair,” he whined, screwing his eyes shut, “we could have – there must have been—,” Strange was barely conscious enough to make sense of Grant’s blathered grief, but somewhere deep inside himself he wondered if the goodbye he had offered the Major had been a blessing or a curse. Whatever it was, he had made himself useless now, to this war, to Grant, indeed to anyone.  

After a moment where Merlin could do nothing but accept Grant’s anguish into his chest, the Major lifted his head and looked again toward the roaring blur of bodies, cavalry and smoking artillery. Something about this sight seemed to settle something inside him, provide him with a focus. Strange understood.

“Go,” he said, accepting that his friend was not the kind of solider who could sit feeling sorry for himself while other men fought for their lives and their countries, “fight for him.” The look in the Major’s eyes told Strange one thing for certain – he was not afraid to die anymore.

Grant sat back on his heels beside the magician. Breathing steadily he blinked a few times, calming, the violent shaking in his hands reducing to an almost unnoticeable shudder. He peered down to his side and saw that his sabre was still encased within its sling.

From the ground, Strange observed Grant as he silently got to his feet and withdrew the blade, eyes fixed forward. As he watched him charge toward the fray, Strange wondered if this would be the last time he ever saw him.

**Author's Note:**

> Another sad one I'm sorry. 
> 
> Thank you to those who commented on my previous Grant/De Lancey fic! I wouldn't have had the confidence to upload this without you.


End file.
